


cut across the sky and move a little closer now

by alanticipate



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Democracy, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, Haha jk, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28169814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alanticipate/pseuds/alanticipate
Summary: The one where Meechum gets shot much earlier, but because he survives, everything goes the way it's supposed to for Frank Underwood.[S3-S5 AU]
Relationships: Edward Meechum/Francis Underwood
Kudos: 17





	cut across the sky and move a little closer now

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Sugar For The Pill' by Slowdive.
> 
> For how Meechum and Frank address each other here I took inspiration from "I Called You Dummy" by Mybaloney, which is an absolute masterpiece and should be read by the entirety of the HoC fandom: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14274081

Ed Meechum has only lied twice in his life.

Once was to his Ma, when he'd lost his lunch to the middle school bullies in an embarrassing record time of half an hour after the school bell rang. Of course he would never tell her what was going on, not if he could ever help it, but she made it awfully hard when she called out to him in dulcet tones as he raced upstairs, first thing when he got home, about whether he wanted some of the pie that she'd been baking. His cheeks had been flushing a hard red, like the apple that got tossed aside in favor of the ham sandwiches, but he'd pressed his lips into a grin and yelled out that he was stuffed from lunch today, it was great, no Ma, it was really fine and-- the worst-- he felt too full for pie right now.

(God, he can't even remember why he lied about that. He thinks it was probably stupid pride. That and the fact that if he'd gotten started on these pies, he'd never have been able to stop, and then he would have had to tell her everything.)

The other time was to the First Lady of the United States of America, because of course it was. He was in hospital, loopy off pain meds after getting shot by who she called a deranged journalist, desperate to close the final gap in his right-wing conspiracy theory. 

Ed had tried very hard not to think about the night's darkness swallowing the train station the day of Zoe Barnes' freak accident, and how Mr. Underwood's face had looked, like brittle stone, when he shut the car door behind him. But that was so long ago that he had since come to terms with the fact that they were utterly godless, these people, and with the fact that he would still throw himself in front of a bullet for them. (Yes, even taking into account the fact that he had just done so. Current circumstances, of course, dictated that he would now have to think about both. So much for a peaceful recuperation.) 

He was too groggy then for Claire Underwood's silver cheekbones and sharp eyes to inspire any sort of compulsion towards honesty in him, even when she asked him if he was hurting in a voice that was too hushed for its raw compassion to be a camera stunt. "No, ma'am," he'd replied dutifully. "I feel much better."

(Once, the President had told him over tired eyes and a shared bottle of scotch about a game that a famous Russian writer's brother had supposedly played with him. The brother told the writer that there was a special club that he could be inducted into. All he had to do was sit in a corner and try not to think about a white bear. Of course, the writer, try as he might, could not not think about the white bear, and he never made it into the club because it was simply impossible.

This was usually how Ed felt about the President -- more specifically, his cut hand curling over the President's tentatively, the firm press of the President's lips against his for the first time, and the ghostly imprints of the President's fingers on the back of his neck. But at that moment, it was how he felt about the pain.)

All of this goes through his head as he stands idle in the Residence, waiting for the President. He wonders what it would be like to tell the President frankly that he hates Tom Yates. Tom Yates, who for some reason has managed to insinuate himself into the lives of the First Family with the ease of a conman and the faux-verve of a frequent liar. Yates, who is currently alone in a private study with the President. Ed doesn't even want to know what they're talking about. If they are talking at all.

(A small consolation to him is that he knows about the authorship of Yates' first book. Namely, that it wasn't Yates' book at all. The President had told him that one night, because it was safe to tell him things. Because he would be loyal to Underwood nation until the end of time, for reasons he has long known but dares not say aloud yet.)

Ed wonders instead. He wonders about why the President still keeps Yates around if he knows that Yates isn't nearly half as talented as the rest of the world thinks. He wonders about what life would be like if he'd been just a couple of years too early, ended up serving President Walker instead. Walker's attractive in the same sort of way Ed is -- wide-eyed and earnest, constantly going on about serving his country with a lovely, if somewhat misguided, patriotism. So the (current) President had said once, chuckling, right before kissing Ed in the Oval. 

('Do you know what the difference is between you and him, Edward?'

He'd shaken his head. 'No, sir.'

The President had leaned in close then. 'The difference is,' he'd whispered in a low purr, ' that I ruined that man.' It had given Ed chills to hear the President acknowledge so calmly what he had done to the Walkers. Of course, there was still more to come. More casualties, more blood. And he would be there for all of it, he would be _there--_

'I think, Edward,' and here the President's voice had gone impossibly lower, 'that you're going to ruin me.' 

A pause. 

'And I think that I'm going to let it happen.')

Ed reflects, thinking back, that these words were probably the closest to a confession of love that Frank Underwood had ever gotten in his life. No, more than love -- it had been a confession of need. Which, knowing the Underwoods, was worse than love, because needing someone meant that they had power over you. 

The sudden desire to know what is happening in there, with the President and Yates, begins to nag at Ed. He's posted right outside the door, made of heavy wood so it's impossible to hear through, but he still takes his comms wire out anyway in the hopes of catching a sliver of what's going on. The moment he does, the quiet becomes deafening, so much so that he almost starts to worry. 

(The President has guts of steel, but at the end of the day, he's still human, almost alarmingly so. That's what Ed is there for, after all. And if Yates has somehow ended up hurting the President, Ed will end up hurting Yates. It's that simple, but a part of it has gotten dangerously personal. He doesn't mind, though. He never does.)

Ed's got one hand on the doorknob when it twists violently and Yates walks (the man himself would probably describe it as 'storming' or something equally militaristic and pretentious) out of the study in long-legged strides. His coat is stiff; his sand-colored hair stands on end. Ed knows he is theoretically supposed to be ahead of him by now, escorting Yates out, but all he wants to do is check whether the President is okay, because something's obviously happened. Still, he knows his job and he knows his place, so he hurries to catch up with Yates.

Yates saves him the trouble, however, throwing Ed off with a monotonous growl of "I can find my own way out" before scurrying down the stairs.

He will probably get lost. Ed lets him.

He goes back to the study and knocks on the door. "Sir?" 

"Meechum." The President sounds weary. Ed's not surprised; between Hammerschmidt's article and cries of unprecedented nepotism where the First Lady is concerned, there's a lot on the plates of everyone in the White House. Still, there's something off about tonight's brand of exhaustion; it's tinged with defeat and makes something in Ed's throat close up.

"Is everything alright, sir?" 

He asks this all the time, not because he has to but because hates this feeling of being useless, unable to do basically anything to make the President's problems go away. They've talked about this a little before, about how it's both impossible and unnecessary for Ed to try and take on some of the President's burden. The President had laughed and then called Ed sweet, and then said in more serious tones that nothing was supposed to work out like this, but he was going to protect Ed because he wanted to.

(Ed hadn't bothered to point out that it was supposed to be the other way around then because he'd been too busy trying to figure out how to ask to be kissed without actually _asking,_ but he thinks that maybe he should have. Maybe it would have leveled the playing field now.)

"No."

A pause.

"You can come in, though." It's more of an order than an invitation, so Ed obeys. 

The study is tidy, save for a mustard yellow envelope on the glass tabletop, labelled 'CH5' with a blue marker. It's tattered and a bit smudged in some places and it looks suspicious; Ed wonders fleetingly how it got clearance before he remembers, with a twinge of annoyance, that Yates probably brought it in. They're still keeping up appearances of Yates doing the AmWorks book for some reason, just so he can continue seeing the First Lady. Last Ed heard, Yates was supposedly on the fourth chapter, but it looks like he's made 'progress' since then. Everybody knows about it, but nobody talks about it. 

(Ed wonders if, in another life where he had had more brains and more talent, he might have ended up this way too. Sneaking in and out of the most powerful halls in the West, late smoky nights and the honeyed words of a Head of State being slid across big tables like knives. The thing about him, though, is that he's always been content to be wherever he is. What he has now with the President isn't ideal, and it's certainly not permanent. But it's enough.)

"Sit down, Meechum." He closes the door and obeys, not because he's not a free man until 11.30 pm, but because the President's voice stirs something in him that makes him want to do anything and everything in the world to keep this one man happy.

The clock reads 11.29. The President stretches in his swivel chair at his desk, before raising his head to meet Ed's eyes.

"Drink?"

"I can't drink while on duty, sir." He takes a glass anyway and holds it out for the President to fill up. The exchange feels sentimental because it's always the same every time.

(Sometimes, in his more insecure moments of introspection, Ed thinks that the only reason they even have this arrangement is because in a constantly shifting, politically tangled Washington D.C., it's good for the President to have some semblance of consistency. Of sameness. And it's not as if he minds giving that small thing to the President, but everyone knows Frank Underwood's nature, or at least how the man presents his nature. He gets bored quickly, and once he gets bored of _this,_ Ed doesn't know what he's going to do.)

"What did Yates do, sir?" Ed's eyes follow the clock, but his ears are attentive to the low rumble of frustration that comes from deep the President's chest as he pushes his laptop away.

"Oh, it's nothing," replied the President dismissively. "He just said something about Claire that I found distasteful, and I threatened to boot him publicly. And then he said Lucas Goodwin's story was a far better one than the one I'd asked him to do, and then I kicked him out."

(When Congressman Underwood had become Vice President Underwood, Ed had stood dumbstruck as he had announced that Ed was being cross-promoted to the Secret Service. To be precise, he'd said to Ed in a firm voice: I protect my own. For someone so ruthless, he has possessed a remarkably strong sense of loyalty for the years Ed has known him. Granted, it's highly selective-- as in it applies to literally one person-- but it's there. Ed sometimes thinks, in hazy, typically post-coital passing, that it belongs to him too.)

They fall silent for a moment. Then, the President says, "For all that man's shortcomings, though, I think we ought to drink to him."

"Why?"

"Because," the President mutters, "he's the only sane man in this damn building." 

"I highly doubt that for some reason," comes out of Ed's mouth before he can stop himself. _One minute, Ed. You can wait to be snarky with the President of the United States for one minute._

The President chortles. "Why, what do you have against him?"

_He's giving you more stress than you can handle at the moment. He makes you unhappy and sometimes he makes your wife unhappy too. You were going to sleep with him but you didn't, because I was right outside. He's pretending to write his stupid book and pretending to understand you, but I know if he really did he would hate you, because sometimes even I think I don't know who you are._

"Nothing, sir," replies Ed. "He just strikes me as a little eccentric sometimes." Well, now that's his third ever lie.

"Yes," hums the President, "all writers are a little strange sometimes. Especially," and here he winks at Ed, "if you've written a New York Times bestseller."

He pauses. "One day his time here will end, though. And when it does, I have the feeling that you'll enjoy it nearly as much as I do." The President narrows his eyes at Ed with a grin, and the sudden realization hits Ed that the President _knows._

"Well, sir, you know I'm willing--"

 _"Edward,"_ says the President-- Frank, now, then. Just like that, Ed knows that it's 11:30 pm. The clock is long forgotten.

"Your shift's over" is what Frank says after that, and not at all what he means. 

There are a million things that have been splattered across Ed's mind since he first fired a lone shot into the pitch black suburbs to protect Frank and Claire, and none of them he's ready to say. Instead, all he breathes out is a single name as he closes the space between them. 

So it goes.

***

"Promise me, Edward," Frank had murmured into the shell of Ed's ear one night, "that you'll still be there when everything goes to shit." 

His Southern drawl had been markedly more pronounced, which was always a sign that he was on the verge of falling asleep. The sound had reminded Ed of something adorable, like a yawning cat, and he'd told Frank so while deliberately ignoring the earlier comment.

In response Frank had insisted that Ed had to commit to either a yes or a no, he wasn't a damned congressman, and it was really a simple binary choice.

Ed had sighed then, fondly exasperated. "Yes," he'd said, turning over to more closely observe Frank's face. "Yes, I'll be there. But I don't see where this is going, because nothing's going to go to shit. You'll make it work, whatever it is," he added after a moment's hesitation (after all, just because he'd been brought up patriotic didn't mean he had a candlelit shrine to the Presidency in his living room. The President himself, though... he came close, but he certainly wasn't Ed's god, not by a long shot). 

His eyes had traced the well-curved outline of Frank's lined cheek, cradled by the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp. He hadn't been thinking about anything in particular except whether Frank would have any sort of personal objection to Ed eating Cheetos in bed. 

"You're only saying that," Frank had sighed (somewhat moodily, Ed thought), "because you're paid to." 

"I'm not paid to lie in the Presidential Bedroom and talk about things that aren't going to happen," Ed had pointed out. "In fact," he'd smirked, "I could just get up and go back to work--"

"Don't you dare."

"I'm not on duty now, you can't order me around, _Frank."_

Ed only used the President's first name when neither of them were working, and he'd done it that night because he'd been -- hell, he didn't even know what he'd been trying to do. Play pretend at domesticity? Try to supplement the illusion of them being equals? At any rate, the President usually seemed to appreciate and relish the sounds (far too much, sometimes) of when Ed said his name. 

But this time, for some reason hearing his own name had made the President tense visibly. He'd turned away to face the wall, and that was when Ed had sensed that something was off. 

"What is it?" he'd asked in a gentle, coaxing voice. No reply. So Ed had tried a tentative "sir?", but that had made the President physically _flinch._

After a couple of minutes, Ed had been on the verge of giving up. He'd touched the President's shoulder briefly and asked, "Do you want me to go?"

That had gotten a reaction. The President had surged upwards then, with half of his salt-and-pepper hair sticking unceremoniously upwards and a vigor that had startled Ed even though upon further reflection it didn't really surprise him, and pulled Ed abruptly into a kiss filled with a strange urgency.

When they'd pulled apart, the President had rested his forehead against Ed's, in a tender and languid contrast to the kiss of a few moments ago. And then into the space between them, he had exhaled. "Don't go." 

So Ed had stayed, because there were few simple things in life, and this request was one of them.

***

Since then, he has tried to untangle that particular event in his mind. But it isn't until today that he finally understands what was happening back then. He understands that calling the President 'Frank' had thrown him off that particular night because it thrust him forward into a potential future where his and Claire's dynasty came crumbling down. Where he wasn't Mr. President or Senator Underwood or Congressman Underwood or even anything Underwood to the world anymore. Just Frank. 

Well, now this future is their new reality, and right now there's no question about who the President is to the world. Manufacturer of chaos, manipulator of elections, and a very likely cold-blooded murderer. The First Lady has ended things with Yates, and _The Herald_ 's stories are generating nationwide coverage. Ed may believe in the President, but he's still a mere observer and even he knows that nothing can save them now. There's no way out of this one. 

He's the only one that knows about the President's plan to resign before the rest of the world does. It's not a particularly prolonged or painful discussion; like many other things in Ed Meechum's life, it just happens. 

They're in the Oval Office and he's just been called in to escort Womack and Birch out. (He doesn't know what they've been talking about, but from the eerily placid look on the President's face, it must have been something serious. The whispers are getting louder and louder, it seems.) 

The President is at his desk, shuffling through some papers, when Ed walks in. Just before Ed is about to close the door after Birch, the President calls him back. He puts the papers aside and glances contemplatively out the frosted glass windows of the office for a few moments.

"Edward." The President says Ed's name -- his first name, which is surprising because Ed's still on duty and it hasn't happened again like this after that night with the two of them and Claire, but it still feels nice to hear the President call him 'Edward' for the simple reason that it always does.

"Come here," says the President. "I want to talk to you."

Ed walks to the front of the President's desk. He stands up a little straighter then because at that point a part of him has already sensed that this might be the last time he steps foot in this room, this building.

A lone bird chirps outside. The March sunlight floods harshly into the room, and Ed finds himself wishing that he had kissed the President this morning before they both put on their ties and left for work.

"Edward," the President says calmly, "The Democratic leadership has asked me to resign."

"Sir," Ed begins.

"You can stop calling me sir. I don't think it'll matter much anyway in a couple of days." The President chuckles scornfully and then leans back to peer up at Ed. "What were you going to say?"

Suddenly Ed can't remember what it was he was going to say. So all that comes out of his mouth is, stupidly, "Are you going to?"

"Yes. I am." The President's gaze flickers away and he sighs, long and quiet. It wells up from deep inside him and Ed wants to tilt the President's chin up, to face him again. But he can't ignore the gravity of what has just been said, because all of a sudden he's unsure of where he would be crossing the line (hell, he doesn't even know where the lines to cross are).

"I'm going to announce tomorrow. To the Declaration of War committee." The President clears his throat. "I would prefer it if you were there. With me."

Ed blinks. "Well, if you want me there, sir, I've got security clearance. I'm the head of your detail." He seriously doesn't know how he keeps doing it, saying stupid things like this. As if the President doesn't know this, as if he wasn't the very one who arranged it. 

The President rubs the bridge of his nose. "That's... ah. I should probably elaborate. I mean," and here he sucks in a breath, "if you were in committee. _With_ me."

If the added emphasis on certain words is supposed to be enlightening, it doesn't do anything for Ed. He has an inkling, certainly, of what might be about to come next, but he doesn't want to assume and then horribly overstep his bounds. What the President most likely means is that he wants Ed to be standing right next to him, which is unconventional for them but will probably be necessary, because once the six words (five if he uses a contraction-- "I'm resigning office, effective immediately") come out of the President's mouth, the press will swarm them like a pack of wolves. 

Naturally the President can't possibly mean that he wants Ed with him when he resigns, as some sort of supportive presence or a romantic partner or anything equally ludicrous. Because that would be tantamount to--

"I want you there," the President continues gravely, "as my partner. As my lover. For support, if you will." 

"Oh," says Ed. He looks at the President. _"Oh,"_ Ed repeats, eyebrows raising, because the President is apparently serious about this suggestion. The President looks back. He appears to be almost amused, whether to disguise the fact that he's just admitted to needing something as base as emotional support or as a genuine reaction to Ed's face.

Finally Ed responds, slowly, "There's a lot of details to work out." Once he gets over his initial shock, the rest comes in rapid succession, because all of a sudden he understands that the President isn't just asking to hold his hand under the table as they stare down the committee chairs together. He's asking Ed to stay with him, wherever he decides to move forward from here.

"Yes, Edward, I'm aware of the procedural difficulties of publicly confessing to a three-year-long affair," the President replies testily. Then he softens a little. "I know you would probably end up losing your job. We don't have to do anything you don't want to. It was just a thought, and I'd certainly appreciate it, but as we've already discussed, what I'd like even more is to protect you."

The President lets that hang in the air for a moment for Ed to ponder. Ed is sure he must still look stupefied, because the President repeats, reassuringly, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to." But he's starting to look a little unsure of himself now, as if he's reconsidering the whole thing (or maybe he's reconsidering Ed, which is objectively worse).

It dawns on Ed that the President needs an answer soon, because apparently they're now doing the thing where they have real people conversations at work. So, with a little effort, he pushes the cogs of his brain back into motion.

Not only will he 'probably' lose his job (ha ha), he'll set the reputation of the Secret Service and of national law enforcement back by a hundred years. Admitting a personal connection to the President will immediately place him under suspicion of being an accessory to all the things in Hammerschmidt's article -- the murders, the laundering, the lies. Mrs. Underwood will likely start her presidency as a punchline to a very not-funny 'gay husband' joke splattered across the collective consciousness of America's misogynists. Ed's mother will be appalled. 

Ed presses his lips into a pensive line. And then he says, after a moment's pause, "Should I resign before or after you announce?"

He reaches across the table to take the President's hand, the one without the class ring on it, in his.

The President, bless him, looks stunned. Then his expression changes to one of profound relief. He grips on to Ed's hand, turns it over gently in his own. "Before would probably be better. But are you absolutely sure this is what you want, Edward?" he asks. As if he doesn't already know the things that Ed would do for him, the things he has done for him.

"Yes," Ed responds, and finds that he truly means it. "It's a little early for me to retire, but I can find a place to land."

The President frowns. "You mean I'll find you a place to land." It's more a question than an assertion, Ed realizes. A question of whether he'll go with the President, much more allow the President to find him said place. 

So he says again, "Yes, we'll find something together." And then smiles, just to make sure the President fully understands.

The President laughs a little and leans forward; he's still got Ed's hand and he won't let of it like a little child, and it makes Ed laugh too, even as it sends a pang to his heart because he can sense how much the President hates everything outside of this office right now. How much he hates the thought of having to let go of it, of the power he's sought so fervently and worked so hard to take.

"Hey," says Ed. 

The President looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. 

"Everything's gone to shit."

"Yes," the President replies primly. "It has, Edward. Your point?"

"Just..." Ed trails off. He knows what he wants to say, but he's never been particularly good with words. So he stills. He gently pries his hand away from the President's so that he can use it to hold the President's face. Then, in the Oval Office, Ed leans across and kisses him long and slow.

(He doesn't know how else to tell Frank that he's still here. With him. How to else to tell him that he loves him.)

When they part, the President is looking at Ed like he's hung the moon (more so than usual, really, which is saying something; Ed wonders how nobody else on the President's detail has picked up on it). Then, a lazy smile spreads across his face. He turns to the George Washington portrait, above the fireplace across the room. 

"We just," drawls the President, "made out in front of George Washington", and Ed laughs until tears are coming out of his eyes, because he's profoundly mortified and giddy with happiness and now he knows that they're both going to come out of this alive.

***

The weather forecasters predict that it'll rain on Inauguration Day. It doesn't happen.

Ed and Frank agree over dinner, the same day the Electoral votes are finalized, that neither of them are surprised that Claire Hale is entering her second term. She's charming enough and efficient enough that nothing would have stood in her path for long. Not a very public but amiably settled formal separation, not the scores of Americans who still don't believe in any woman for President, and certainly not the aftermath of the scandals that plagued her husband.

Claire Hale, Ed knows, always gets what she wants. And Frank Underwood? Well, Frank gets Ed.

They had debated for some time over what their next move would be. More specifically, where to, what Frank would do, and what Ed would do. ("You're not," Frank had said authoritatively, "going to take a bullet for _anyone_ ever again. I forbid it." And Ed had laughed and agreed, because he didn't particularly fancy dying young, not if Frank wasn't at risk.)

Eventually they'd gone away for a couple of months to wait out the media storm before settling on staying in DC. The scrutiny would be worse than in, say, Connecticut, but Ed hadn't wanted to bother his mother (that's a lie; he's still scared of how she'll react if she sees his face, but a part of him senses that she'll be more understanding than he's preparing for) and anyway, this place -- for all of its flaws and its inconsistencies -- was home. Is home.

They have an apartment which doesn't have a view of the White House. It is, however, possible to spot the Capitol grounds if one squints, and Ed knows that sometimes Frank goes up to the rooftop to have a late afternoon smoke and look at the white spires, democracy glinting pristine in the sunlight. 

("Democracy," Frank mumbles one night into the warm air when both of them are drunk, "is tainted with blood." Then he falls asleep on his stomach and Ed leans across and reaches out to push his hair back, knowing that he will never ask what Frank means and Frank will never tell.)

In the early days Ed used to feel bad about the fact that Frank had essentially given up any chance he had to recover his footing in either the public or the private sector, just to be left alone in peace with Ed. Frank, of course, thought it was bullshit. ("There is no one except for us," he'd said while gripping both of Ed's shoulders. "Me. You. That's all there ever was to me, and all there ever will be.")

Now he doesn't feel bad anymore, because he understands. He understands that there was never anyone else for him, that there probably never will be again for as long as he lives. The fact itself is so easy to accept that it almost alarms him. Like one day something might happen that throws the two of them back into something even they can't get out of.

But for now Ed feels like everything is okay, and that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments greatly appreciated ;)


End file.
